The Hats I Wear

The No Longer Pregnant Hat

2012-01-06T01:34:00.000-05:00

I seriously never thought it would ever really happen. I couldn't ever imagine being pregnant, enduring labor, and actually having a child of my own. As it occurs, I have accomplished all three of these things, but as I write now, in the wee hours of the morning because I have resorted to carrying my little one in my Moby Wrap as a soothing measure, and I surely cannot sleep with baby all wrapped up against me, I find it difficult to believe that I actually was pregnant and I actually did endure labor. Pregnancy came and went so briskly that now it seems as though I dreamed the entire process. While my body has very nearly returned to its pre-pregnancy state, it is difficult for me to believe that my belly actually did protrude so much so that I had trouble getting into and out of bed, tying my shoes, and taking a bath. I suppose that belly growth occurs so rapidly so near to the end of a pregnancy, that when it is all over, it seems as though it happened in the blink of an eye. How ironic, really, because just a little over a month ago, I was praying for my baby to arrive so I could be finished with my pregnancy...it couldn't happen soon enough, and now that it is all done, I cannot believe I was ever pregnant to begin with.

Now, I have entered what they call the fourth trimester...which is a clever designation for the parental experience of a child's first three months of life. This part is an adventure I hope to savor. It is difficult. Far more difficult than pregnancy was, but at the same time, it is a precious time in my life. I treasure it, in a distorted, sleep deprived way.

Now, I am going to wake up the husband, as he will relieve me of soothing duties so I can have a sleep shift. I would love to say there is more to come on the topics of labor/delivery and parenthood, but who knows? This new life of mine is rather unpredictable, and I have learned I cannot really make plans for much of anything at present. But I would like to write more on these topics, and if I have another Moby Wrap soothing night in the near future, I will.

Things I Cannot Wait to Do Again

2011-11-12T09:00:00.002-05:00

I am presently 34 and a half weeks pregnant, and I haven't blogged much because the past few months have been crazy...I am working, in grad school, I am preparing the house for the new baby, and my dad had heart surgery two months ago, which knocked my socks off, upsetting my routine a bit, as well. Dad is doing great now (Thanks be to God!) and with the approach of my baby's due date, I have been looking for ways to de-stress, and blogging this morning just might help.

I woke early this morning (it happens a lot now that I am nearing the end of my pregnancy) and I began to list in my mind the things I am looking forward to doing again, once the baby arrives. There are things I have happily avoided for the past 8 months, in which I am looking forward to indulging again very soon. Here is my pregnant woman's wish list for things I want to do after baby's birth:

1. wear all of my old clothes - this one may take a little while, but I will get there
2. drink wine
3. eat sushi
4. eat cold cut sandwiches
5. have a normal, non-nauseated constitution again

That about sums it up...I am pretty excited about the fact that I will get to enjoy these things again really really soon.

The Alps

2011-09-16T04:52:00.004-04:00

A little over a year ago, Philip and I missed our flight into Paris for the start of a beautiful European vacation. As a consequence of this mishap, we were re-routed into Switzerland for a brief layover before sojourning on to our appointed destination. It was in the descent into and ascent out of Switzerland that I first encountered them: the Alps.

I wish I had taken a photograph of this majestic mountain range. Since I did not, I will attempt to describe it here. From my sky-view, I perceived what I thought were rigid clouds suspended within the crystal blue ceiling. Upon closer investigation, however, I realized those rigid clouds were not clouds at all, but pinnacles, pointed peaks, penetrating the hazy atmosphere, and the serene drifting of the actual clouds, the actual vapor, blanketing the mountaintops is what gave me the impression that these pointed peaks were suspended, apart from their bases, lifted out of the earth and floating towards the heavens.

As we descended towards the lush green earth, my vision could not even contain the whole of one mountain, and I saw, that in spite of the fact that these structures appeared, from the air, to be floating in the atmosphere, they were, in fact, rooted to the ground on foundations far more imposing than their jagged spires.

We spent no more than an hour total in Switzerland before heading off to resume our journey into Paris, but the Alps made an impression on me. So firm, so unmoving, so unconditional and solid.

In my microcosm in this life, my dad is my Alps. He has always been solid, stable, and his love is unconditional. He taught me how to love, and his was the first visage of God's love to my humble life. As the Alps, in their majesty, somehow connect the heavens and the earth, my dad has done the same in my life through his deep, unmoving love and his selflessness, which has been a picture to me of the way Christ loves.

This week, my Alps have experienced what in my mind is absolutely unthinkable. My Alps have suffered an earthquake. As my dad sleeps in his hospital bed, preparing for a day of open heart surgery, I pray that God's love will blanket him, and that even my love can weave strands through God's blanket, and that God will allow my dad to survive this disaster and recover quickly. The Alps, after all, are an integral part of the world's landscape.

Keeping Full

2011-08-08T17:33:00.001-04:00

With this new stage I have entered, the mommy-to-be stage, have come certain challenges I have had to overcome. The greatest has been the challenge of eating. What should I eat that is good for the little baby growing in me and what can my appetite handle without igniting a case of the heaves? I suffered with atrocious morning sickness for a couple of months, and while the worst is over, I am still battling the nuisance of random bouts of nausea. Okay, they are not really random because they occur at regular intervals if my belly is not kept at full capacity, so I am still battling the nuisance of regular, anticipated, bouts of nausea. My newest concern, then, is: How do I cope with hunger nausea when I am at work?

I have recently acquired an amazing job that I cannot wait to begin, but with the position will come stretches of time away from my trusty microwave and refrigerator. Lately, I have combated the onset of nausea by eating frequently, and most of what I have eaten has been left overs such as mom's gumbo, a dish my husband coined "Pasta FaJulie," and other foods my mom or I whip up in bulk, which I can easily reheat just when my stomach starts yelling at me. This, however, will shortly become an impossibility. What to do?

My solution: concoct cold dishes that I can travel with in a chilled insulated lunch box, and then, I can nibble all day long, hopefully allaying the emergence of the queasies.

Here is what I have come up with:

#1: Pasta Salad

This is a delightful recipe from the Summer section of

#2: Ambrosia Fruit Salad

and

#3: Strawberry Bread-not a cold dish, per se, but one that doesn't need to be heated

The Ambrosia recipe and Strawberry Bread both come from my absolute favorite cookbook in the entire world...
and, so, there you have it. Beginning tomorrow, I have three long days of orientation for the Cabarrus County School System. Three days away from my microwave, but that is A-OK. My pasta salad, ambrosia, and strawberry bread will keep my belly full in between the breakfast and lunch my fabulous new school district will be providing to me. Yay! I can beat pregnancy nausea, after all!

I am Putting on My 30s Hat

2011-06-28T19:17:00.001-04:00

I am officially a grown up. I have three very substantial evidences to prove such.

#1: I am 30 years old. Farewell, twenties. You were good to me--far better than the single digits or the tens were. I will always treasure your memory with fondness and sincerity, but alas, I must move ahead. Youth does not last forever, and if it did, it would come at a rather large price. Just ask Dorian Gray. He sold his soul to the devil for eternal youth and the pleasure that accompanies such perpetual vigor. Watch the movie, Dorian Gray, or read the novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde--it's even better. In the movie, the older Dorian, uncorrupted by age, notes, "I assure you, pleasure is very different from happiness. I mean, some things are more precious because they don't last." My twenties were precious. My thirties will be also.

#2: I am pregnant. Three and a half months pregnant, to be exact. If there is ever a reason to grow up, this would be the one. In less than six months, there will be a little being that depends on me for its survival. It is a beautifully daunting responsibility, but one I look forward to. I hope I don't screw up the little life all too badly. I hope God's grace is sufficient for parenthood.

and, *sigh*

#3: I have a few gray hairs. I found the first one in my eyebrows several months ago. Thank God for tweezers! However, at the time, I didn't know whether it had any kin abiding on my scalp because I had an established practice of coloring my coif. Now, however, I am 100% natural, and I have found a couple of shiny gray strands among the mousy brown. I did say they were shiny, and that is thanks to these fabulous pregnancy hormones that are eliciting a hardy sheen.

So, yes. I am officially all grown up...but being a grown up isn't all that bad. In fact, I think I am gonna like this stage of life.

Morning Sickness

2011-06-12T21:29:00.000-04:00

My body has undertaken the laborious task of building a baby from just a few cells. The process began sometime in April, and let me tell you, the work has been arduous. I am currently twelve weeks and three days pregnant, and I became the victim of the misnamed ailment known as morning sickness for about five weeks now. It is getting old.

I didn't mind the fact that I lost my appetite in the beginning of my pregnancy. In fact, for a few weeks there, I was eating the healthiest food around: chunks of juicy orange cantaloupe, leafy green salads, and plump strawberries freshly picked from a nearby farm. I didn't even mind when my body began to solicit breakfast sausage and other crispy meaty indulgences of the sort. What I do mind is the ever present nagging torment of nausea that plagues me with its incessant companionship and has done so for weeks now. This nuisance has absconded all pleasure I once derived from the act of eating, and it has beleaguered me with vexatious fits of dry heaving. There was the harrowing week of indefatigable vomiting, which seems to have ceased (and I certainly hope I am not jinxing the progress by committing this to typeface). Nevertheless, the relentless contortions of my esophagus and the agonizing salivation accompanying the regurgitation of air have yet to emancipate their captive.

When will the joys of the second trimester of pregnancy bestow themselves upon me? What if I am doomed to be one of the few women who experience this malady throughout the entire pregnancy? I didn't realize that the curse of "pain in childbirth" duly encompassed the hex of gestational dyspepsia. Lord, please have mercy on this mother to be!

Trade Off

2011-04-08T19:20:00.000-04:00

I traded a life of luxury for the pacific. I traded ambition for calm. It has been two and a half weeks since I last punched the clock, and I have made some observations while realizing my freedom.

To start, we have so much, but need so little. A gym membership is great, especially in the winter, but in this time of new beginnings when the world is bursting forth in many shades of green, how nice it is to exercise among the trees. How much more entertaining to me are the cardinals and blue birds flying overhead, with their soft, sweet voices, than the news and do-it-yourself TV stations oft airing in the gym.

Restaurants are inviting; who doesn't love being served? But one can appreciate the opportunity to cook meals from scratch and enjoy them on the patio, in the brisk, spring air.

Most importantly, I relish the time...no more deadlines, no more expectations, just peace. The only people I need to please are my two cats and my husband (and God, of course), and because they all love me so, it isn't an impossible feat.

Nevertheless, in the midst of all this, I do wonder what my next step will look like. Where will I be in one year? Six months? While I know it is vital for me to embrace this simple life, I am a planner, and I cannot help but peer into my future, musing over what will be. I appreciate my present, but probably not nearly enough, for I have dreams I wish to see realized, and they will come at the cost of the simplicity within which I presently dwell. However, when I trade the pacific for the hustle and bustle, it will be, this time, on my terms, preserving my soul and my heart and the essence of me.

The Conductor's Hat

2011-03-24T08:58:00.000-04:00

I am at the helm of a steam locomotive throttling full speed ahead. Before me the tracks run directly into a bustling metropolis. Chugging along, I see an obstacle on the tracks in the distance, and just before the obstacle there is a fork in the tracks. As I near the fork, I am able to gain a better perspective of the obstacle. It is an elephant, standing, unmoving, on my path into the city. What do I do? There are two possibilities, yet only one option.

I adjust the controls of the engine, and I shift gears. I have chosen not to hit the elephant. The consequence? There are many people awaiting the train I conduct into the city. Their needs are plenty, and they rely on my strict adherence to the schedule. On the other hand, I am heading down a path to I know not where. I have never taken these tracks before, and the further I go, the fewer signs of civilization within view. I have no map, and I cannot predict the destination, so I slow down, proceed with caution.

I knew where I was headed on my usual track. I knew the people waiting for me, as well as the tensions of the hectic and relentless schedule of the city. Those awaiting will be disappointed, frustrated even, yet I also know that there is another train behind me, and it will make provision where I have left neglect. As to the path I presently travel, the tracks are a bit rusted, and there are weeds growing over them; I can smell the fresh grass as my wheels slice the overgrowth to shreds. The sun is ablaze, the sky cerulean, and nature is calling me to decrease my pace. Wherever it is I am heading, there is no requirement to rush.

I am left a bit discombobulated, but not discouraged. I know the metropolis I left behind will be okay. Besides, I think of that elephant, monolith, and I realize I could not have proceeded beyond its mass. I would have killed the elephant, certainly, and perhaps even harmed myself and my passengers. In spite of the fact that city residents will be left a little rattled by the breach of routine, they will find their rhythm again, soon enough, and somewhere, out in the wilderness, I will find a village. I will stop there, and then I will know I was never meant to enter the city walls. The elephant approached my course for a reason: I was always meant to take the alternative route.

Park Pleasures

2011-03-18T15:17:00.000-04:00

In effort to adopt more European ways, on this, my day off, I decided to spend a bit of time in one of my county's parks. My husband and I have been frequenting two of our favorite parks since the weather has become a bit nicer, and I decided this morning that I would take a bit of an amble on my own.

Sadly, I found the park to be rather unpeopled. Recalling the many strolls I have indulged in during my many travels, and the populous nature of city parks around the world, I felt saddened because the lack of people in this suburban county park reminded me that so few Americans allow themselves time for the enjoyment of life's simple pleasures.

Nature is calling out for courtiers, especially now that spring has sprung, and I am determined to answer her call. I ventured out for some exercise, but I found on my jaunt that it is necessary to stop every now and then and soak in all the details of life surrounding me. I brought my camera along, to serve the function of preserving reflective moments among the grass, sky, and trees, and I was pleased with all my eye and lens captured.

Winter Wonderings

2010-11-16T18:54:00.000-05:00

With every leaf that drifts through the breeze on its journey to the ground, winter draws nearer and nearer. As I contemplate the advent of this icy season, I ponder over all that I look forward to with great anticipation, as well as that which I dread.

What do I like about winter? Much. Fitted coats with stylish cuts; slouch boots, heeled or flat; tights; feminine sweaters; all the clothing that flatters and covers all the unseemly parts of me. I also love the smell of burning dust the first time my heater runs, the downy soft layers of winter blankets, flannel pajamas, eggnog, coffee, tea, and comfort food. Most of all, I love the Christmas season. Solemn hymns reverberate the air waves, homes are decked out in twinkly adornments, and my heart reflects on my one true Savior, and his birth and all that followed from that moment of destiny beneath the Star of David. I eagerly anticipate studying Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol with my seventh graders--not just because it deals with repentance and deliverance, but because I admire the truth and poignancy of Dickens's writing, along with his willingness to reveal the social injustices of his fast-paced industrial age, while imparting a mantle of hope upon the hearts of his readers.

But there are things I regret about winter, as well. I do not enjoy the early manifestation of nothingness each day as the sun rushes to the horizon to warm the souls of another portion of this vast earth. And while I love the things that guard me from the cold, I do not enjoy the feeling of it - the chill in the air that clings to, rather, penetrates, the skin. And while I relish the pillowed silences on mornings after a snow, I do not prefer the mushy slush deposits left behind in the days that follow. Most of all, I detest the anxiety that night brings, and since night falls so early, the anxiety creeps in earlier and earlier and earlier, until December 21st.

Nevertheless, I indulge in the lengthy cuddle sessions with my husband and two cats, the fact that my little pookies sleep nearer to me, and soon enough, Professor Macgonagall will sleep on my chest to keep warm. And maybe, just maybe, the love our little family shares suffuses with fresh vigor, as it burns and radiates with heightened spirit, campaigning ferociously against the cold and the dark and the shadows and the anxiety that threatens to corrupt all that could be pure as the wintry snow in this stage of resiliency we find ourselves persevering through at each year's end.

Under Pressure

2010-11-09T19:10:00.000-05:00

I guarantee there is a reason why I drew a hot air balloon. Here I am, contemplating my reaction to a high pressure work environment, when the following quote enters my brain, "Some things explode under pressure...others soar..and others are yet unmoved," and then into my mind pops a serene image: a hot air balloon floating gracefully among the clouds. I let my mind ponder that picture for a moment, and I decide, "I am going to draw this..." Then, I vacillate. Will my balloon succumb to the fire that propels it? The image of a balloon dancing among flames enters for a brief second, but I discard that representation and resume the prior imagining of the blithe mass soaring above the earth.

I draw the balloon.

As I am intently constructing this vehicle of emotion, I ponder..."Is this a coincidence? Am I drawing a balloon in flight because I simply thought of this likeness randomly?" In answer, I discover that is not the case at all. Somewhere between conscious and subconscious, my mind has fixed upon the perfect metaphor for my present plight in life. Consider the hot air balloon: this machine of primitive invention requires nothing more than hot and cold air within an airy envelope to waft itself into the atmosphere. How is the air manipulated? With pressure. By blowing hot air into a space filled with cold, molecules perform a rhythmic gyration increasing the density of air pressure diffusing within a fixed space. As such motion incurs, the balloon is swept up into the airy heavens for a halcyon journey above all cares and distress associated with life on the ground. Passengers of such machines can literally indulge in dreamy wonders with their heads in the clouds!

With that said, how does this operative vehicle represent my station in life at present? I am under intense pressure on the job to perform. This pressure is both external and internal, but I am perplexed about how to respond. I feel as though my corporeal body will actually explode, disintegrating into shards of myself, but this image came to me at the most opportune time. I can only imagine and hope that perhaps, this image is meant to encourage...perhaps, this is an opportunity to soar. I don't just mean an opportunity to outperform, but I hope this is my opportunity to soar above the burdens at work, and desist in allowing the compression to discourage me. Maybe I can transcend this menial encumbrance.

Once Upon a Time...

2010-08-01T20:46:00.000-04:00

I recently found Shelley Duval's Faerie Tale Theater on Netflix, and I just viewed the very first episode, "The Tale of the Frog Prince," which has a copyright of 1983. I remember watching this series on PBS when I was a child, so I was thrilled to find access to the witty fairy tale performances I cherished online through Netflix streaming. This particular episode featured Robin Williams as Frog Prince, prancing around in a green suit, jesting about with his signature flair.

While viewing this episode, which I remember seeing as a child, I pondered over the role of fairy tales in modern culture, as well as my own life. I have always cherished a story, so much so that I majored in English Literature in college. Now, I teach Language Arts (a.k.a. Reading and Writing), so my fondness for a good story has intensified as an adult. Though I know there are no fairy godmothers or glass slippers, I appreciate the archetypes as symbols of the things I know to be real. A good friend or a grandmother who sacrifices for a child's success is the personification of the fairy godmother, while the dream job is exemplified by Cinderella's glass shoe. Fairy tales are the building blocks of all stories, really, whether we wish to acknowledge this truth or not. They give us hope and teach us lessons, which can be applied in many areas of life. Though not every tale we read, or view in theaters for that matter, ends in happily ever after, the dream of happily ever after underscores them all. For the absence of the happily ever after is what distinguishes an irony or tragedy from comedy and romance. The fairy tale itself is a measuring rod for all stories.

I have always been allured by typical formulaic chick flicks for the joy of feeling that somewhere out there, true love exists, and the unlovable find love, and the ugly find beauty, and as the king in "The Tale of the Frog Prince" emphasized, "You mustn't associate beauty with virtue." And these tales, these promises of what can be or what is inside us all, will never fade, no matter how skeptical our world appears.

Tea Time

2010-07-26T15:53:00.001-04:00

It is one of my absolute favorite indulgences: tea time. I have experienced this simple pleasure at Kensington Palace in England, at the Windsor Court Hotel in New Orleans, and at my own home in North Carolina, and regardless of the setting, I am always comforted and eased by the whistling of the tea kettle and the sounds of my spoon jostling the sugar into a whirlpool around the perimeter of my tea cup.

Who needs an afternoon nap, when one can have tea? Who needs dessert, when one can have tea? My cup is a friend, indeed!

I recently rented a book from the library with recipes for scones, tea sandwiches, and sweets, and this weekend, I tried my hand at a few. I made Rose Petal scones, and I actually picked a rose from my own garden for this recipe, which made it all the more special, and the strangeness of the ingredient made the experience of eating the scones all the more tea-ish, in the Victorian sense. I made Prosciutto and Fontina Croque Monsieur, and my husband and I both felt transported to France when the sandwiches gently titillated our palates. We sipped a simple black tea for refreshment, as we dined on our very own tea time fare in our own backyard beneath our covered patio.

There is nothing like a tea setting to infuse the senses with memories of the most soothing moments of a life. For me, a sip of tea is a trip across time, across oceans and into my own soul where new discoveries are made, as the fragrance of the ground tea leaves triggers impressions of dreams forgotten and plans to be made.

The Summer House Wife

2010-06-14T10:47:00.000-04:00

I am extremely delighted to begin my new occupation for the summer: house wife. How blissfully pleasant it was to wake at 9 A.M. this morning, eat breakfast, practice yoga, and clean out the grody old food dwelling within the icy confines of the refrigerator all before 11 A.M.

I have a list of things to do for the day, two out of five already completed before noon. I also have a list of things I want to do today. How magnificent it is to have the opportunity to create such a list, with the express knowledge that I will be able to accomplish the tasks recorded there. Praise the Lord, summer is upon me!

A Little Bit Creole

2010-05-18T17:30:00.000-04:00

My creole roots come out when I need a warm, spicy meal to clear my allergies. At times like these, I whip out my creole cookbook and whip up a pot of delectable gumbo. Usually made with andouille sausage and chicken, this time, I decided to use turkey sausage and shrimp to add a healthier slant to my swampy favorite.
I begin by making a roux with flour and olive oil. To that, I add diced onions, celery, and bell pepper. Then, I add chicken stock, garlic, powdered cloves, cayenne pepper, allspice, thyme, and basil...yum, yum, yum! It simmers for 40 minutes or so, and voila! I have concocted the perfect allergy remedy!

Affinity for Yogurt

2010-05-10T20:23:00.001-04:00

I haven't always loved yogurt. In fact, there was a time in which I shirked away at a suggestion of even tasting the stuff. Recently, however, my affinity for yogurt has evolved. I think it is partly because I pretty much always crave sugar, and when a late twenties woman craves sugar, disaster is bound to occur in one of two ways.

1) She will eat whatever specimens of the stuff she can sink her claws into, thereby packing on unwanted pounds, cellulite, and "wobbly bits" as Bridget Jones coined them.

OR

2) She will resist, thereby wreaking havoc on all the relationships she has developed with those near and dear because the strict regimen yields moodiness and displeasure.

Thus, to remedy my situation, I invested in my very own carton of Edy's yogurt blends-chocolate and vanilla...a relatively guilt-free alternative to high fat, high indulgence, ice cream. Especially with the temperatures climbing in the late spring atmosphere, such an icy cool treat is not only refreshing, but a sure way to fight off the chocolate craving blues.

The Lucky Cat Person

2010-03-23T21:55:00.000-04:00

Cats are peculiarly endearing creatures.

I am so lucky to have the honor of being a person to two lovely fuzzballs, Professor Macgonagall and Matilda. I am lucky because after conversing over coffee with my dad and mom about my little pookies, I realized that the responsibility of being a cat's human comes with many graces. One of which is the privilege of seeing quirks in a cat's personality that no other human can ever discover.For example, Professor Macgonagall can be a real "touch me not" as my dad calls her. She is moody and whiney; nevertheless, after intensive sessions of quality time, she becomes an affectionate companion, practically invading my personal space, audibly begging to have attention lavished upon her, and I, her humble servant, indulge her every whim. But in so doing, I am awarded the pleasure of a head butt or two, which is a signal of affection she shows no other.
Then, there is Matilda, my fraidy cat. This poor baby was a stray, and her traumatic life on the streets has made her anxious and fearful of any strangers, and sadly, she still considers my parents as such. But when I am alone with her, she squeaks a little greeting, sniffs the air at my nose, and even grooms my scalp with her teeth...it is so tender and loving!

So, yes, these creatures are peculiarly endearing, and I am thankful to have them as my companions, friends and comfort!

The Observed

2010-03-09T19:09:00.000-05:00

Welcome, all lab coats, to test experiment numbers 1, 2 and 4, otherwise known as, my first, second and forth block classes. The test subjects range in size from mini people to almost adults, and their behavior from near mute to bouncy ball. Observe, if you will, the tiny teacher in the middle of the room; she is trying her best to manage the chaos of adolescent learning. See for yourself the impact of this variable on the outcome of our experiment. Will they learn more, less, or just the same, with her as their educator?

Today, I had the pleasure of being observed by not 1, but 2 education students. These students had the pleasure of observing the song and pony dance I like to call, "A Day in the Life of a Twenty Something Teacher of Twelve and Thirteen Year Olds." Included in the day's agenda was a soft-drink spill accompanied by uncontrollable laughter, an angry outburst by another agitated control object, as well as the continual disruption of an adorable, but hyperactive, sixth grader in attempted isolation from his peers in the book nook of my classroom.

On the whole, I would say, these polite and probably bored out of their mind students saw enough to determine whether or not continued coursework in their field of study would benefit them in the long run. As for me, it wasn't such a bad "Day in the Life of a Twenty-Something Teacher of Twelve and Thirteen Year Olds." I signed up for this experiment a long time ago, and I don't plan on quitting any time soon! I happen to love the little lab rats!

The Hard Hat

2010-03-06T15:56:00.001-05:00

Okay. I don't actually own a hard hat...But my house is presently a construction zone. My talented father and adorable husband are in the process of giving my home a whole new level of Martha Stewartdom by installing bead board wainscoting into our kitchen and downstairs half bath. It is amazing how it classes the place up!
Last week, Phil and I spent several hours painting the kitchen "Ripe Currant" by Home Depot's Behr. Behr has likened the color to a ripe currant; I liken it to cherries shining in the sun.

This morning, dad came over and began gluing and nailing the bead board in while Phil painted the half bath. By the end of the weekend, my home will be brand new.

The Valentine

2010-02-14T11:08:00.000-05:00

Victorian England: the renaissance of courtly love.

I learned today, via a very informal Wiki quest, that Saint Valentine was not one person, but several, and though a February feast was celebrated by Catholics the ages over for this/these men, no one knows much at all about their holy works on earth.

Interesting, then, that we have devoted an entire holiday in their name, with the goal of sharing intimate verses with the objects of our affection. Did these men ever know such love?

So, Chaucer mentioned Valentine's Day, as a time when birds mate, symbolizing coital affection in a piece of literature written to honor the marriage of Richard II, sometime in the 1300s and from this verse, a tradition, or the justification for such, was born.

What I enjoy most about the history of this holiday is its re-birth in Victorian England. Like Christmas, and chivalry, Valentine's Day reawakened in this era, as its people, proper, righteous, sexually unblemished, sought avenues of liberation. Like the mistletoe tradition of Christmas, the Valentine's missive became a means to rebel against propriety and for one spot of time, reveal one's true affection to another, without fear of social repercussion.

So, here I am in post-post-modern America, a land where sexuality is embraced as a facet of modern living, rather than a means of sharing intimacy with one true love, and I wonder, if the Valentine's card, that little red and pink scented token, in an age of free love, could represent for us something more...Whereas in Victorian times, the Valentine represented an unburdening and awakening of love, in our age, could it represent a reversion to simpler times, times when simple acts of affirmation could resuscitate a fading heart...?

My hope for all on this Valentine's Day is for true, uncontroverted love to manifest itself wildly...not through empty pleasures, but through little well versed reminders of affection and its importance in this world, though oft overlooked.

The Saints Fan

2010-02-09T13:08:00.000-05:00

So they did it! The good ole boys not only made it to the Superbowl, but they won! Praise be to the Lord of Heaven and Earth!

I would say this euphoric event was a long time coming. Phil and I watched the game at my father's house. My father, who was skeptical of the Saints' success all along, declared regularly that "This is going to be a long night." After the first quarter of the game, we all worried that the Saints of old, the Saints who cracked under pressure and blew games when they mattered most, we worried that these Saints were the men on the field in Miami. Were we wrong!!! and thankfully so! Our boys pulled it together, and under the leadership of the great Sean Payton and Drew Brees, they won the game that mattered more than any other.

Congratulations to Brees and Shockey and Bush and Hartley and Colston, Henderson and Thomas, and all who gave every ounce of their being to the victory that would once, for all, honor the great City of New Orleans! A city that had fallen, but is resurrecting in force, and this victory is a symbol of the sustenance of the spirit, the faith, and the liberality of all those who claim "New Orleans: Proud to call it home!"

The Seamstress

2010-01-16T18:47:00.000-05:00

I have done it! I have learned how to use my sewing machine and sew! There was a day when I was probably 10 years old when I was inspired to make my own clothes. With no tools or materials, I became resourceful; I created a dress for a miniature stuffed bunny out of toilet paper. That was when my parents decided to have my grandmother teach me to sew. I appreciated this, but she didn't teach me how to make the sort of things I wanted to make, and there was really only one lesson in total, anyways. I wanted to make clothes. I wanted to know how to use a sewing machine, and until age 28 (the present) I was never able to even experiment.

About 6 months ago, sadly, my grandmother passed away, but I have inherited her brand new never before opened sewing machine. Today, my husband and I went to Hobby Lobby for a piece of furniture that I could work on, which we found, and it is adorably fitting for my personality, and as soon as I got home, I opened the machine and set to work reading the manual and teaching myself how to thread a bobbin and stitch on the machine. The result? Two throw pillows for my couch! Now, they aren't at all perfect: my stitching wasn't all that straight and I don't know how to use the machine for blind stitching to close the sham, but I did it! I read the manual, and I figured it out, and I can only get better from here! Look out, Tommy Hilfigger, here comes design by J-eunit!

The Literary Critic

2010-01-10T14:42:00.000-05:00

Situational irony occurs when events contradict expectations, and this applies to the contradiction between my expectation of Rome in 1499 and its reality. Rome has been considered the Holy City for ages; the home of the pope, it is thought to be the centerpiece of Christianity. As such, I would envision sparkling clean streets, pristine architecture and pure inhabitants. On the contrary, I have learned, along with Michaelangelo Bunarrotti in Irving Stone's The Agony and Ecstasy, that the streets of this ancient bulwark are dingy, the buildings dilapidated, and the air expelling filth throughout the region. Additionally, the citizens, including His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI himself, indulge in vile fleshly pastimes resulting in illegitimate children and destitute citizenry within the city gates.

For some reason I thought that popes began as priests, and priests took vows of chastity. I know that Cardinal Richilieu of France had mistresses, as did Mazarin who followed, and it seems as though Cardinal Wolsey in England kept a mistress as well. I suppose I imagined those were anomalies; however, according the biographical novel by Stone, these aversions from the holy way of the Church were the norm, and I am disappointed, in spite of the fact that I am not even Catholic, that the church was so full of corruption even at that stage of history, and my eyes have been opened, that perhaps even now, what appears holy and true is a mere facade.

Zen in Twenty-Ten

2009-12-31T14:37:00.000-05:00

Zen: noun; a Japanese school of Mahayana Buddhism emphasizing the value of meditation and intuition. (OED)

Meditation: a mental discipline by which the practitioner attempts to get beyond the reflexive "thinking" mind into a deeper state of relaxation or awareness. (Wikipedia)

Intuition: noun; the ability to understand something immediately, without the need for conscious reasoning. (OED)

I suppose my New Year's resolution for the year Twenty-Ten is to maintain an aura of Zen throughout the year. I have recently embarked on an introspective journey which has unsettled all of the dark spaces in my mind, and yes, I have located truth in the midst of the chaos, but the feeling that has permeated my waking existence since September has been tension, enmity within my soul. What I wonder in this whirly girl world, is whether it is possible to achieve rest...can one feel tranquility on a roller coaster or repose in the midst of a meteor shower? Christ died so I can live. Such is the pinnacle of all paradoxical thinking, but therein lies truth. Thus, I believe it is manageable to achieve Zen in this hasty, pell-mell century.

It's possible.

The Theater Goer

2009-07-30T10:11:00.001-04:00

My mother and I went to the Blumenthal Center for Performing Arts in the center of Charlotte last night to see the hit Broadway musical, Mama Mia!

There is something about the towering sky scrapers and walls of glass found in a city that makes my heart sing out the tunes of George Gershwin. An energy abounds a city at night, where neon signs and lit walkways twinkle in lieu of the stars. The feeling provoked is one of impulse and impending excitement!

So, as we drove the city streets, looking for our garage, we both felt the enticement of the musical before us. And the show, it was no disappointment! The woman who played Donna (the mother) strummed my heart strings with every note she exhaled. The comedy, timed out as though by a metronome, yielded such gut uttering cries of laughter, and the music danced through me the entire evening.

Charlotte is no Manhatten. Yet, I am thankful for our Broadway Lights series, which engages the down home southern audience with a taste of the city life that people like me merely witness on shows like Will and Grace or Sex and the City. Like Cinderella, whose magic imploded at the stroke of twelve, my life as a city girl screeched to a halt upon the resolution of the evening. Nevertheless, the hope within me swells, as I ponder what future indulgences lie ahead.

The Artist Hat

2009-07-05T19:45:00.001-04:00

I have not worn this hat in many, many years...actually, since high school...that's well over 10 years ago. Nevertheless, my mom recently gave me some old sketch pads of mine, and after looking over my work and feeling proud of what I produced, I decided to dabble in the art again, and here is some of my recent work.

I call this one "Ann Boleyn," as it was inspired by the Ann character of Showtime's Tudors. The one that follows is "Belle," and I call the final piece "The Queen of the Domicile." That one represents my cat, Professor Macgonagall, who rules the household.

The Gardener Hat

2009-07-03T20:08:00.000-04:00

Today I wore my gardener hat.

Though it is not a role I fill frequently, I did enjoy the novelty of expressing myself through designing and packing a little space of land.

Thankfully, my husband and father labored tirelessly to build the wooden planter edging and to dig the solid clay earth to plant our beautiful weeping cherry trees, and after they spent hours chipping away at the earth and hammering iron rods into the ground, I performed the easy task of arranging the plant life and submerging it all in wet black dirt.

In spite of my girly-girl track record, I quite enjoyed digging my fingers into the mealy earth. It reminded me of Oreo cookie crumbs. And now, we (hubby and I) have a beautiful garden of irises, amaryllises, and canna lilies to enjoy for years to come.

The Hat that Remembers

2009-06-18T15:03:00.000-04:00

2003: a monumental year in my life. It was the year Lindsay died. It was the year I married Philip Morrow. It was the year I wept my tear ducts dry, the drainage of a reservoir of mood, the precursor of the droubt that parched me.

April, a month known to exude pastel and fragrant pansies, wreaked havoc over my youthful energy with the ringing of a phone and the delivery of the somber news that my childhood friend did perish. Complications from a respiratory infection. Tragic. The funeral occurred on a sunny spring day, the juxtaposition of life and death offending my grieving nerves. Wailing ensued. The memory replays itself in shades of gray. It was an ending; there I bade farewell.

After two months of denial then grief, I prepared myself for the day of stark contrast. On June 28th of the same year, I unified myself in holy matrimony to the young, the loyal, Philip Morrow, the fountain ensured to replenish my desert. Where once was wailing now gave birth to laughter. The mind once clouded in gray was at once infused in color. Unlike the definite end I knew in April, I embarked upon a beautiful journey, a beginning, in June.

It seems to me surreal for one young soul to traverse such a steep climb from the cragged depths of despair to the pinnacle of blessing in two short months. Yet the opposing moments occurred and they exist within me, guide posts on the journey upon which I now proceed.

The End of Grade Test Administrator Hat

2009-05-20T18:48:00.000-04:00

Last night I dreamed that I could not control my class while administering their end of grade test, and because of this, our testing session was declared a misadministration. How horrible! That is probably the worst thing that could happen to a teacher in my district in this economy, when teaching positions are about as stable an occupation as working in an automobile factory.

I cannot help but recall the OWL exams taken yearly at Hogwarts Academy in Rowling's Potter tales. I think perhaps Rowling is using these wizarding tests as a vessel to make some statement about standardized testing for real life students. I remember somewhere in one of the books, something crazy happened in the middle of the OWLs...what year was that???? I cannot remember...well, anyways, that would most definitely add up to a MISADMINISTRATION, and whichever character who was teaching at the time would definitely have had to meet with Dumbledore in his private chambers to discuss his/her job performance.

The point is that these tests are not merely stress conductors for students, but the looming reality of misadministrations or testing irregularities plague teachers from the moment the tests begin to the second the intercom resounds with the relieving message, "Today's testing session has now ended. Please move students to their next block of classes." You can almost hear a collective sigh among students and teachers, alike. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the whole city felt a slight tremor at that moment when the entire district's students and teachers exhale in unified relief upon the finale of the exams!

The Graduate's Hat

2009-05-13T17:39:00.000-04:00

8 years...8 long years.My husband, Phil, walked across the stage to ceremonially acknowledge his commencement from university living to professional lifestyle. He graduated with a 4.0. I wish I could have graduated with a 4.0. He graduated with a 4.0, which he managed to maintain, despite working full time as an assistant manager at America's Largest Wireless Provider, despite taking a semester off to plan a wedding, despite missing a year of schooling because of Hurricane Katrina's impact on the university in which he was enrolled, despite a move across the southern region of the United States, despite leading the academic organization Gamma Iota Sigma as president for a semester, and despite his mounting duties as husband to a needy wife. (That's me). I am so proud of my husband, and the obstacles he has overcome, and I am so thankful that my part time student has officially become my full time husband, as of May 9, 2009 at 3 P.M. God bless, him!

Victoria's Hat

2009-04-19T17:20:00.000-04:00

My favorite monument in London is the Victoria Monument in the front of Buckingham Palace. I know little about her majesty, apart from what information I have found on the internet and what evidence of her I saw in London, while I visited. However, I was entranced by her majestic image carved into stone upon the entrance to the present monarch's residence. So many places in London have been given her name, and this monument, endearing and graceful, represents a powerful, yet just woman. I remember thinking, as I gazed upward at the monolithic sculpture, "The people here adore her, or someone here once did," and I cannot help but imagine a positive influence exuding from her countenance. History says that the Queen was direly in love with her husband, Prince Albert, and a true romantic, she mourned his death for decades after his passing. For a queen to have been submissive to a husband who was not a king, for a queen to have born nine children with this man, for a queen to have worn black in mourning for twenty or more years after this man's death, I infer that this queen was a woman of keen sensitivities, willing to love with every pulse of her heart.

The London Hat

2009-04-17T19:19:00.000-04:00

This is actually my London hat because I wore it in London.When I look at this hat, when I hold it in my hands, the dust of London's fog is disturbed and sprinkles upon my fingertips. How I wish I could inhale the London fog today!

Philip and I spent 7 full days roaming the streets of this diverse British city. We visited Shakespeare's Globe Theater, where we witnessed acting students in the midst of rehearsal for a jig finale for some performance. We stood on "The Prime Meridian of the World" in Greenwich, we climbed up to the galleries of St. Paul's Cathedral, and we saw two stage shows and a ballet.
Believe it or not, however, my favorite moments were those spent dining. I am grateful for the European respect for privacy, as the servers respectfully kept their distance during our meals. We dined in peace, gazing into one another's eyes, engaged in conversation, for hours at a time.Hand in hand, we tread the cobblestones of the Tower of London, the escalators in the underground, and the pavement of the City of Westminster. We toured the Chelsea Football Stadium, Handel's Home, and Kensington Palace and Gardens. We rode a double decker bus. We ate chocolate covered Belgian Waffles (I much prefer the chocolate crepes of Paris), we drank tea at Kensington's Organgery, and I ate fish and chips for the first time (New Orleans fried fish is much tastier--I guess I will always be a New Orleanian at heart).

I loved the mushroom trees at Hampton Court, the monument to Queen Victoria in front of Buckingham Palace, Diana's dresses, and my daily dose of Earl Grey tea. I loved the accents of the people surrounding me on the Underground, and I hoped that as I rode along, I would be perceived as one of them, so I tried not to speak and blow my cover. I loved the tights that every woman wore, the skinny jeans, the scarves, the chiffon dresses, the ballet flats. I loved Debenhams. I loved the Wellington Arch. I loved the king sized bed and feather pillows at the Rubens Hotel. I loved London.I want to hold on to every moment of this experience, as if it were the present. I want to recall every sensation at a second's notice, with the intensity of what I am feeling now. I want to imprint the sights I saw onto my memory, as though I were painting permanent tatoos into my brain.

As the song goes, "Please don't let this moment end / it's everything I am / everything I want to be..."

The Londoner

2009-04-04T13:38:00.000-04:00

Okay, so spending 1 day in London is probably not a sufficient duration to adopt "The Londonder" hat, but the title sounds so much better than "The London Lover."

So I am here in London, after several months of planning and waiting and working, a hectic period of life from which I have been allowed a week's respite. I haven't blogged in a while because of the tumultuous lifestyle I have led teaching, fulfilling non-instructional duties, taking night classes, and keeping the house clean.

Nonetheless, I am here, back again, and this time, I would like to talk about my sojourn across the sea. For starters, my husband and I flew here in the night Thursday, and I thought I would be able to sleep well in the plane, since we had purchased these cushy neck pillows and feather soft fleece blanket; I was wrong, after getting what I am assuming to be about three hours of sleep, we took the Gatwick Express from the airport to Victoria Station, and from there we pulled our luggage for a couple of blocks to our beautiful hotel, The Rubens at the Palace. My first thoughts of London: it is cold, the people are incredibly fashionable, and I cannot wait until my head hits the pillow of that king sized bed awaiting me.

Yet, Phil and I held fast. Though we wanted to sleep, we pressed on until 9:00 P.M. We visited the Tower of London, as well as the Tower Bridge Expedition, and then, my favorite part of day, we shopped at this department store called Debenhams, which I researched and selected because of its reasonable prices for quality merchandise.

What can I say about the Tower of London? Medieval, stone, cobblestone, which killed my feet as though it were a royal guard poking its dagger into my soles, parapets, golden weather vanes, rustic, yet regal. We toured the Bloody Tower, the White Tower and the Traitors Tower. At some point, we saw the area in which King Richard, the lion-hearted dwelled, yet the display was not authentically original, for much of what has survived reveals little of what once existed. We viewed the crown jewels, which were amazing, and the armor of King Henry the VIII, which grew in proportion as he filled out through the course of his life.

I must say, however, that my knowledge of British history has too many gaps, and though I am intriguied by the historical artifacts I have seen recently, I feel that I have much study to undergo in order to have the appreciation for these sights which I desire.

More to come (that's, of course, providing I give myself another break from sight-seeing).

The Workout Hat

2009-02-08T13:50:00.000-05:00

After two days of dancing around the house to my internal juke box, I realized that my body was trying to tell me something: WORK OUT, YOU FOOL!!!! I last worked out on December 23rd, and in the interim, I have ingested one too many pieces of cake and candy, and two too many cups of coffee, bringing my body to caloric overload, requiring immediate assistance. Today, I decided, was the day of reckoning. I popped the cardio dance fusion DVD in my player, and samba-ed my way to happy-land where the endorphines flow freely and the tension escapes its encapsulation inside my muscles. Perspiration drew its finger puppets down my back and abdomen as I pulsed my hips and plied my inner thighs for twenty five minutes of sensational recreation. I am going to hurt tomorrow!

Discover Los Hermanos!

Victoria's Secret Addict

2009-02-07T18:22:00.000-05:00

I never put this hat away! I am obsessed with shopping at Victoria's Secret dot com. The clothing provides classically chic pieces that my closet begs for! Presently, the clearance sale is furnishing me with many opportunities to grant my closet's wish, and with Valentine's Day on the horizon, my wish list shall decrease upon my husband's generous purchase of items I am longing for.

Some of my favorite items I have gotten from the site recently are below:

Top and Jeans

Sweater Dress

Sweater

Red Velvet

2009-02-02T19:16:00.001-05:00

I sacrificed for you today, Red Velvet. I ingested 5 servings of fruits and vegetables, today, Red Velvet. For you. I ate carrots, a banana, and an orange. For you. I drank several ounces of cranberry juice, Red Velvet. I did it all for you. For you to indulge in the steamy sauna of my mouth, for you to enter the tunnel of pacifism, for you to ride the corkscrew waves of my intestinal tube. I did this, Red Velvet. I. Did. This. For you.

Don't thank me now, Red Velvet. No gratitude of yours can compensate me for the sacrifices I made today, the sugar servings I withheld from myself when a little comfort was all I needed. No, the candy basket thanks you, Red Velvet. The candy basket thanks you, for all it needed forfeit to my voracious appetite on this day was a measly packet of Sweet Tarts. Sure, it was sweet. For a second. Before the tart. The candy basket thanks you.

This post is dedicated to those of you who often wear the "Lover of Red Velvet Cake" hat...sure, you may attempt to closet it, but we all know who you are!!!!

And for those of you looking for the perfect Red Velvet hat...

(Okay, it isn't actually velvet, but it looks every bit as tasty as the cake pictured above!) I saw this hat this weekend at Target, and I think it is adorable!!!

On Tolerance

2009-01-28T18:59:00.000-05:00

My tolerance wears Ugg boots, yet streaks blue low-lights throughout ashen hair. It parades itself in worn jeans, Cowboys t-shirts, and Miami Dolphins wind pants. My tolerance has dread locks, chuck taylors and wire rimmed glasses, with jelled spikes on its crown, a hood hiding its forlorn countenance. My tolerance wears Juicy Couture sweat pants, Rave bangles, and holiday themed rubber bands on its braces. It seats itself at the front of every class and at the back. It stomps down the hall in a rage and wheels around in a motorized chair. My tolerance is black, yellow, brown, red, and pasty...it's brown-eyed, blue-eyed, feminine and tom-boyish...rugged and artsy. My tolerance weaves a tapestry of all that is dear to my broken heart when reddened eyes and swollen noses peer into my face, searching for, longing for, begging for an inkling of hope, a glimmer of sunshine to cast away despondency. My tolerance is a warrior in fatigues, bursting through the ranks to regale the front lines and march forward to peace and redemption, and it is searching for troops to march forward and battle the foes-closed mindedness, judgment, and hate. Which side are you on?

Cats in Hats

2009-01-26T18:08:00.000-05:00

Meet Professor MacGonagall. No, I am not confusing J.K. Rowling's heroine with characters in Dr. Seuss's The Cat in the Hat; the Professor, MacGonagall, is my cat. She shines in her onyx coat, the feline princess who rules over the household. My pet name for MacGonagall is Thing 1. Of course, as noted in the video above, there cannot be a Thing 1 without a Thing 2. Matilda accepts that role without condition. The little white and black spotted baby spreads her spunky cheer to all living in her highnessses courts (otherwise known as my house, and her highness is not me, and she is certainly not my husband...have you figured it out yet?)

As I have granted myself the title "The Hat Lady," it must not be a surprise that I occassionally attempt to dress Thing 1 and Thing 2 in hats of their own, to no avail, typically, but try I must! I think they desist from complying only because they feel I might confuse either of them for the Cat in the Hat, which mustn't be done, for they are Thing 2 and Thing 1. Nevertheless, on occassion, I have managed to dress MacGonagall in my husband's beebop hat, and my husband managed to wrap her in a sock turban once before. Matilda received a special kitty chapeau in her stocking, specially delivered by the fat man in red, himself, but she greeted that surprise with disdain, and I am entirely incapable of persuading the dear petite chat that beauty must come at a price!

The Mad Hatter: Genius or Imbecile?

2009-01-25T16:45:00.000-05:00

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word mad means "mentally ill" or "insane." With that said, observe the following excerpt from Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland:

"In that direction," the Cat said, waiving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in that direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: their both mad." "But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked. "Oh, you can't help that," said the cat, "we're all mad here."

And then the visually faded kitty proclaims that even Alice is mad...so I wonder, are we all a little bit mad? I have certainly had my moments of utter madness, paranoid halucinations notifying me that the world truly did revolve around me, or jealousy birthed from extreme insecurity, forcing my moves like a hand upon a chess table. Obsessions, compulsions, obsessions, compulsions, ticking like a clock in my cerebrum, alarming and admonishing, the hand transplanting my form to yet another white square, even more vulnerable than before.

So this Mad Hatter...was he mad or normal? Later in Carroll's novel, the hatter is charged with stealing the Queen's tarts. While on trial, the King scolds, "Take off your hat," and to this, the hatter responds, "It isn't mine...I keep them to sell...I've none of my own. I'm a hatter." Pretty clever wit, I do declare! I think you have to be a genius to come up with a retort such as that! Upon further reading, I resolve that either my friend the hatter is a genius, or else, a requirement of madness is the possession of elements of brilliance, combined with ironic drollery.

Aretha's Hat (I Know I am Late)

2009-01-24T22:48:00.000-05:00

I viewed the inauguration from home on Tuesday, January 22ND, and I saw, with my own two eyes, Ms. Franklin's headdress. I imagined that many would criticize her boldness, and though I personally would never wear a bonnet like hers, I admire Ms. Franklin's elegant appearance, honoring the inauguration of our first ever African American President.

This website is devoted to real hats as well as figurative ones, and I believe Ms. Franklin's is symbolic of both. By this I mean, the hat we know her to don on a regular basis is one of gospel diva, so, I perceive that her eye-catching Luke Song embellishment is representative of her musical flair. As her notes, high and low bounced around the acoustic mall, so did her hat bounce around the media, emphasizing her taste in euphonious accoutrement.

I know my expatiation on this topic is a bit delayed, but I could not ignore Ms. Franklin's unerring paradigm of the rationale driving my development of this site.

The Dancing Queen

2009-01-23T17:07:00.000-05:00

When I was a little girl, my uncle had a plastic daisy set atop his piano, which would mechanically jive as he played. Since then, I have likened myself to this dancing daisy because I cannot sit or stand still at all when music is played in my vicinity.

Thus, one of the many (metaphorical) hats I wear is that of The Dancing Queen, and this hat was audacious today. I recently watched the film version of the musical Mamma Mia, an excellent movie, by the way, and my husband was then inspired to download the original ABBA album containing the songs from the movie. I listened to the c.d. on my lengthy commutes to and from work today, and the result was as follows:

The pianist dribbles his fingers across the ivory keys, and the chorus of singers begins, "You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your life..." and the motion begins in my fingers...snap, snap, snap, snap...then the crown of my head dashes side to side in an oceanic flow with rhythmic staccato. My shoulders pulse up and down and all of a sudden, my body is possessed by the song as it undulates through me. While driving, I tap my steering wheel, as it has transformed into my percussive instrument. Do I care what nearby drivers and passengers ponder as they pass? Not at all because I am "having the time of" my life!!! And what do I do when the beat has died? I press repeat in an instant, and the experience recycles itself time and again, my entertainment over the hour-ish drive. Here are some examples of what my dancing looks like:

1. Check out Hugh Grant in Love Actually:

2. Or Katie Holmes in Mad Money:

3. But Best of All, Meryl Streep as The Dancing Queen, in Momma Mia!:

The Teacher Hat

2009-01-21T18:40:00.000-05:00

Today I am speaking in metaphor, so for those of you searching for a trendy hat report, I will need a rain check until tomorrow because today, I need to speak to another audience...the audience of people learning to manage life and their various functions as humans on this planet...

Today I fixed onto my head my teacher hat, which had been airing out for about 5 days during my extended Martin Luther King, Jr. day weekend. This is a peculiar hat, invisible to the naked eye, yet fashioned of a flimsy unseen silk, so thin that one can stack other hats upon it, without bulky lumps or conspicuous seepage from beneath the brim. An odd invention, this teacher hat can sometimes feel light as a feather, yet other times, it is as burdensome as a ton of bricks.

On this day, my teacher hat felt about as cumbersome as a single brick...yet even a brick can be difficult to balance on one's head for a number of hours.

Once you purchase the teacher hat (which is done the very moment you accept your first offer to educate young minds) you can never, under no circumstances, on no account, nevermore, not ever, exchange or return this priceless garment. When it becomes yours, it is yours forever. To some, it is an incommodious curse, while to others it is the blessing of a lifetime. To me, it is my sometimes brick-like, lifetime blessing.

But for now, I will lay this topi aside as I lavish myself in the glamor of filling the brim of my blogger hat...and I will resume tomorrow, wearing the hat you style followers must prefer--the lover of hats, hat.

*The hat pictured above is none other than my favorite teacher's (Professor MacGonagall's). The photo is linked to a page where you can purchase your very own. This is for the Potter fans out there...

Snow Miser Attacks Charlotte

2009-01-20T10:42:00.000-05:00

So we had our once a year snow fall today (at least since I have lived in the Charlotte area, we have had approximately 1 snow fall per year). This resulted in a snow day for students, and an optional teacher workday for me, and I opted to not go to work today...

The Snow Miser, decked out in a fabulous Skimmer Hat, sent out his mini misers throughout the night, posting them near rooftops and amid the blustery clouds above. Their chorus rang out eerily, as they howled their bliss over the victory in the South against the old foe, Heat Miser's, men. I am not sure if there are many other Rankin Bass fans out there in cyberspace, but I love me some throw back Christmas specials, so this allusion is for those of you proudly bearing the badge of "Rankin Bass Claymation Fan."

On a personal note, (snow brings out the throw back in me) I will be sporting my 20s style beanie as I play amid the blanketed frost. The white crocheted cap glitters with a large fuchsia sequined flora applique, and with my bob haircut, I certainly appear as though I am a regular performer in Broadway's Thoroughly Modern Millie. I suppose I can dub this one my snow day hat, or maybe, my 20s hat...I will just designate it as my Roaring 20s, Snow Day Hat!!!

Why Hats?

2009-01-18T11:20:00.000-05:00

"It will be like a man going on a journey who called his servants and entrusted his property to them. To one he gave five talents of money, to another two talents, and to another one talent, each according to his ability." Matthew 25:14-15

I realize this excerpt references the distribution of wealth to servants, and further reading indicates that the different servants invested or hid the money, exciting the pride or admonishment of the rich man upon his return, due to the increase or stagnation of funds while he was away. However, I have always seen a metaphorical layer to this passage. I have always understood this selection as illustrating the many gifts given to humans and the expectation for us to use these gifts for the good of mankind.

In my history, I have often sacrificed parts of my identity in order to develop other parts. I sought for one true calling in life, and with tunnel vision, I abandoned anything that did not relate to this calling...at first, I invested all of my passion into dance, strengthening my muscles, and foregoing my intellect to pursue a glamorous dream...then, I enrolled in law school and pumped my energy into case law and uniform codes...from there, I entered the education field, and I teetered between focusing all my attention on my classroom and then on developing my writing skills to pursue that line...

It took years of strife and struggle for me to finally realize that I was given duplicitous talents in order to utilize them all...every facet of my life is important, and every facet of my life is essential in defining who I am and developing who I will become.

This blog is intended for two purposes. The first is a creative outlet for me, the writer, to spew out the thoughts and feelings associated with the many roles I fill in life. The second is to encourage readers, whether family members or people far across the earth, to develop a healthy sense of self, recognizing your many giftings and advancing upon these areas of life, never neglecting one for the other.

And so, I will continue to assume the many different roles afforded me, and in so doing, I have a great excuse to expand my hat wardrobe (wink, wink). As Jesus used a metaphor of wealth to indicate gifts bestowed on man, I will build on this metaphor of hats to represent the gifts bestowed on me...

I hope you enjoy reading, and as you read, I hope you explore your multiple gifts and callings and acknowledge and appreciate all the elements and molecules that fit together to make you You.

Today I Don the Wife Hat

2009-01-17T14:06:00.000-05:00

I proudly don the wife hat this morning, a sepia and ivory tweed fedora with flecks of gold thread woven throughout. I am sure you were picturing a Cinderella bandanna for a homely bride scouring over the dishes and scrubbing the tiles with a toothbrush. Not this wife! My wife hat is brimming with style, a symbol of the freedom afforded the wife of a prince.

Prince Philip holds his lady in high esteem. He spoils me with lavish love, proudly endorsing the quirkiness of his little princess. He appreciates my love for style and acknowledges that I express who I am with every gold earring, bangle bracelet, tuxedo blouse, and skinny jean that I own. He breathes in every whiff of aromatic spritz with which I splatter my neck and wrists, gratified with the awareness that he has provided me with all the things that make me Me.

So I proudly don the wife hat he bought for me in Georgetown, D.C. a year ago, when I lusted for this lid so severely. With panache, I fulfill my weekend duties of collecting his clothing from the local cleaners and gathering groceries for my gentleman's delight. And though I remove this cap that crowns my head while cleaning out the litter box and scrubbing the toilet, I do not assume Cinderella's rags because I know I can be Me, regardless of my engaged activity.

The Daughter Hat

2009-01-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

Today I am wearing my daughter hat...

A blend of royal blue, indigo, and violet crocheted rayon...suitable for the icy weather we are having, with temperatures at 20 degrees, feeling like 12 degrees, a tight knit beanie to warm the chill in my mind, in my heart, in my chest, as I am home from work, sick with some kind of cold, bronchial congested yuckiness.

This is my daughter hat because my father purchased it for me, so long ago now that I cannot remember when it was, and for that reason, I have kept it for many years, despite the rise and fall of its acceptance among monthly, seasonally, yearly trends...all because my daddy bought it for me, and I love him and it is a manifested sign...one of millions of manifested signs...of his love for me in return.

So I don my daughter hat today because it is cold, my chest is cold, and its warmth permeates through my body and my heart on this icy day after the day my grandmother, my father's mother, underwent surgery to remove a rather large tumor from her colon. The surgery was successful, the cancer removed, but my grandmother's fate is a bit unknown, for she will be wearing a colostomy, which is something she never wished to wear, and now, my warm-hearted father, whose hat sends floods of rushing heat through my not 100% body, sits and waits in a cold hospital chamber, to accompany my grandmother, his mother, when the doctor shares with her this news that she is to wear this bag, this artificial stomach, which she loathes for cleaning my grandfather's for over a year before his death, a symbol of the most toilsome time in her history.

Today I wear my daughter hat because I love my dad. Because my heart is with him, my prayers are with him this day, as he sits beside the bed of my grandmother, wishing her warmth, emitting love from his aura to comfort her, as my daughter hat has, for so long, comforted me.